


Dances in Four Eras

by Poetry



Category: Doctor Who, Torchwood
Genre: Angst, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-15
Updated: 2010-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-06 07:23:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poetry/pseuds/Poetry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three times Jack danced with fire, and one time he couldn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dances in Four Eras

**Author's Note:**

> I went on a trip to Virginia and saw the troupe [Dance Afire](http://tribes.tribe.net/danceafire). It was a mesmerizing performance, and fire dancing struck me as the kind of thing that Jack would somehow be able to do. Naturally, I had to write about it. This fic was inspired in many ways by the wonderful story [Dances in Four Worlds](http://www.whofic.com/viewstory.php?sid=22340).

As the sun sank in streaks of green and gold, a lone flame flickered in a quiet cove on the Boeshane Peninsula. A loose knot of people formed around the bonfire, singing of night breezes and dark seas in their lilting language.

At the center stood a handsome youth with dark hair and blue eyes. Behind him, a drum began to beat in syncopated time. The youth began to sweat a little under his tight-fitting tunic. His father passed him a stave with a wick at each end. He dipped the wicks in the bonfire, and the dance began.

The trail of fire arced and swooped around the boy, flirting with his skin but never touching. The boy's tunic was damp with sweat, but his every twist and leap sang exhilaration. His breath came hot and heavy, but the sounds of his exertions were lost in the wild chanting of the crowd. The waves before him were dappled orange, and all the world seemed contained in a circle of heat and light and music.

The song ended in a low thrum, and the youth extinguished the wicks in the sand. Every cheer from the audience raced deliciously across his nerves, but none so much as that of the gray-eyed girl who gasped and clapped and held her breath throughout the ceremony. He pressed through the crowd to meet her, and in that moment, all the world was contained within the circle of her arms and the heat of her breath.

* * *

"It's a tradition from his homeland, Doctor. Besides, he never got to show you his moves, did he? You have to come watch." Rose's eyes went round, and she plucked at his sleeve. _You're finished, Doc,_ Jack thought, grinning evilly. _She could melt a Judoon's heart with that face._

The corners of the Doctor's mouth softened. "All right, then. As long as you don't get too close."

"Don't worry, I won't." Rose looked around and smiled conspiratorially. "I think the TARDIS wants to see him dance too. Jack found a supply closet with a fire stave and a torch and everything."

"Watch out, Rose. Now he's going to be jealous of my lady-killing charms," said Jack, petting one of the rondels lasciviously.

The Doctor raised his eyebrows. "Are you going to dance or just talk?" he said. Jack smirked and opened the door to his left. Inside was a gymnasium with a torch flickering in a bracket in the wall and a traditional Boeshane fire stave on the floor. The wall and floors were made of a dark, soft, slightly springy material. Jack couldn't identify it, but reveled in the bounce it added to his step. The Doctor leaned against the wall near the bracket. Rose stood next to him, jumped, and laughed when the floor under him wobbled a bit, unsteadying him a little. "Oi," he said without rancor, and Rose acquiesced, standing next to him to watch the performance.

Jack crouched in front of the stave, lofted it into the air, caught it, and lit the wick at each end in one fluid movement. Under the quiet roar of the flame, he could hear Rose's breath catch. He tossed the stave in the air, and lines of fire bloomed in its path like hieroglyphics in the air. Muscle memory kicked in, and Jack barely needed to watch the fire at all; instead he stole glances at his companions.

Each bead of sweat that formed on Rose's brow was outlined in yellow and orange by the dancing firelight. Despite the heat, she didn't take off her hoodie, which cast a halo of shadow around her face. The warm glow on her cheeks seemed to come from within; her gasps and ohs of wonder were all the music Jack needed to keep time. Whenever the dance brought him near her, she arched toward him unconsciously, like the opposite pole of a magnet.

The sharp planes and contours of the Doctor's face were starkly rendered in shifting light and shadow. The sparks of his eyes flared against the brightness of the firelight. In his gut, Jack knew that this was a man whose face had been illuminated by the light of cities burning. Still, the fire brought out that same primal reaction in the Doctor that Jack saw across so many worlds, species, and times. His arms uncrossed, and he leaned inward, eyes hooded, drawn to the heat and light at a level beyond knowledge or speech.

Jack threw the stave to the ground and stamped hard on each end, extinguishing the flames. The room went dark except for the guttering torch in its bracket, but the warmth lingered in the air. Something new had been kindled.

* * *

It was funny and a little sad how the sight of Ianto in casual dress still unnerved Jack a little. When he was in a suit or in the nude, he seemed complete. In dark jeans and a T-shirt, it was like he was unfinished, somehow. Little flashes of skin kept exposing themselves: his ankle when he stepped out of the SUV onto the windy beach, the small of his back when he bent over to help Jack dig a pit in the sand for the fire, a glimpse of his hip when his jeans rode down a bit.

"I suppose it was naïve of me to expect that your idea of a date would be dinner and a film," said Ianto as he helped Jack protect the growing flame against the sea breezes.

"Next time," said Jack, faux-solemn. "Scout's honor. Aha!" He gave a whoop of joy as two of the logs caught and the fire began to roar in earnest. The two men backed away as the heat intensified.

Ianto's eyes crinkled merrily at the corners, his face lit from below by the mounting flames. "Do they have scouts, where you come from? When you come from?"

"No," shouted Jack over his shoulder as he sprinted to get something from the SUV. "But we do have this!" He brandished the fire stave he'd made by hand, carving and whittling every night to pass the sleepless hours. He dipped one end in the fire, then the other, then dropped into the starting position: a low crouch with the stave held laterally in both hands, far from the body.

Decades of inexperience slowed Jack's movements. He swirled the stave in loose spirals around him, marking out his own little realm. Ianto watched the way he looked at everything: with an appraising eye, seeking to understand not just the dance, but the man performing it. His curiosity was like a sort of faith.

The fire felt like any of the dozens of conflagrations Jack had been through, died in, since the last time he'd completed the dance (the memory stung like salt water). The twin flames seemed very small, suddenly. He picked up the pace, throwing the stave in the air, catching it, balancing it on his shoulder. The undisguised delight on Ianto's face made him look very young. What greater gift could Jack give than to take away (if briefly) all the tragedies that had aged Ianto beyond his years? He spurred himself to new heights of acrobatics, drawing tighter and tighter spirals around himself.

Then Jack caged himself too tightly. He cried out as his trouser leg caught fire and his flesh began to char.

Jack's burning flesh screamed in protest as Ianto flung fistfuls of sand on him to extinguish the flames. What hurt worse was the pain that fell back into Ianto, darkening his face like ash.

* * *

The night was cold, colder than the winters of Boeshane or Cardiff, but Jack did not shiver. He only buttoned up his coat and drew a little nearer to the campfire.

The firelight outlined an approaching silhouette, narrow as a knife's edge. Jack's heartbeat quickened, to his surprise. He thought he'd trained himself not to care anymore, but he knew who that shadow belonged to, and he couldn't help it.

"You shouldn't sit so near the edge," said the Doctor, gesturing toward the canyon that yawned beside him.

"I'll be fine." Jack took a long stave out of his rucksack and stirred the fire with it. "Have a seat." The Doctor sat cross-legged next to Jack, but not too close. "Didn't think I'd see you again."

"I know what happened, Jack. Martha told me." The firelight was swallowed up by his dark eyes, like a match thrown into a deep well. "I ran from you once before. I couldn't do it again." There was some part of Jack that wanted to say ridiculous things like _I hate you_ or _save me, please_ or _you're the only thing that matters anymore._ He was relieved that the Doctor spoke before any of these words could struggle to the surface. "Could you show me that dance again? The one you knew from when you were small?" The Doctor's smile was tiny and flickering, but it burned true.

"You think being immortal makes it easier to dance with fire?" Jack's laugh was as sharp and bitter as woodsmoke. "It doesn't."

A chill wind blew in from the canyon. Jack and the Doctor gazed into the fire, their faces wreathed in soot as the last embers were extinguished.


End file.
